


constellations across your ribs, bruises on your lips

by Venetia5



Series: crack your rib cage open, peel back the bones [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Archie Andrews/Jughead Jones if you squint, M/M, Possible Dub-Con, so much darker than my usual stuff, this is really dark guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 16:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10723056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venetia5/pseuds/Venetia5
Summary: "You think that it’s fairly obvious that you’ve lost your mind, know you lost it a long time ago, right when all this started."For the prompt: Give me FP seducing Archie (Grundy-style), and sleeping with him to get back at his dad+Fred's reaction when he finds++Jughead finds out too





	constellations across your ribs, bruises on your lips

**Author's Note:**

> For this [prompt](http://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1356.html?thread=68684#cmt68684)
> 
> Ok, so this is much darker than my usual stuff, as well as my first attempt at both an explicit and a Riverdale piece. I hope that this doesn't freak anyone out too much, though I do recommend reading the warnings beforehand.
> 
> There is dub-con throughout this fic, as that was what the prompt requested, so I am sorry about that. If people really don't like it, I can try to rewrite it, though I feel that Grundy and Archie's relationship was also dub-con, since she was a teacher in a position of power, which she abused, so if dub-con canon can be accepted, I hope people won't be too offended by this.

You know it’s a bad idea as soon as you step inside the bar. Every head swivels towards you, like you’re chum that’s been thrown into a pool of sharks. You think that might just be a very accurate description, with the way some of them are looking at you.

You’re sure that some of them remember you from the time you’d come here looking for the ones who’d been trying to run your father’s business into the ground. Now you’re here for something else. Or maybe you’re looking for trouble, but you needn’t try so hard. Trouble usually finds you in the end.

You’re alone, this time, no friends that have your back, and you’re suddenly, awfully aware of just how exposed you are. You tug your jacket tighter around you, like it’s going to shield you from the rest of the world (but really, it’s just a bright yellow and blue target, screaming “come and get me”). It’s hot in the bar, and you want to take it off, but then you’ll be shedding this barrier between _you_ and _them_ , and that’s not something you’re prepared to do.

The thought slips into your head, silent and inconspicuous, like water trickling down glass, _I shouldn’t be here._

He sees you before you see him, leaning against the bar, beer bottle dangling between calloused fingers, cigarette smoke swirling around his head like a hazy halo. He’s no angel. He’s the devil, and you’re sure he’s been sent to torment you.

There’s a look on his face when he catches your eye, a little bit dark, a little bit hungry, and it makes you shudder, anticipation curling in your gut. Sunday school sermons fill your head, and you can see why Eve was tempted by the Serpent. What you can’t understand is why Adam wasn’t seduced by the Serpent too.

He moves through the crowd, a hunter stalking its prey, and you’re suddenly aware that this, where you are right now, what you’re doing, what you’re going to do, is so much more dangerous than simply walking into a bar on the wrong side of town.

His fingers wrap around your arm, grip tight and harsh, and you know that there are going to be bruises in the morning. You can’t find it in yourself to care.

He leads you out of the bar, heading straight or his truck, dragging you along with him as your feet scramble to keep up with his, and he all but throws you into the truck, shoving you across the bench so he can climb in after you.

“Have you lost your mind, Red?” He asks you as he pulls out of the lot, tyres squealing, gearbox clunking in a way that suggests it’s going to give up soon. He turns to face you, clearly expecting an answer, and you don’t know what to say. You think that it’s fairly obvious that you’ve lost your mind, know you lost it a long time ago, right when all _this_ started.

“I’m still looking for the guys who trashed my dad’s equipment,” you defend, _excuse, ~~lie~~. _ He knows you’re lying, you can see it in his face, know he sees the lie on your face, and you turn away, staring out of the window, so that he can’t see more, so that he can’t see how _desperate_ you are.

You pass the rest of the ride in silence, the only sound a small gasp that tumbles from your lips when he slides a hand from the steering wheel to your leg, thumb rubbing gentle circles on your thigh.

 

* * *

 

His hands hook around the collar of your jacket when you pull up in front of the trailer, and he drags you across the bench into a bruising kiss that’s more teeth and tongue than anything. It’s a filthy kiss that leaves your lips red and sore and split, a bead of blood pooling on your lower lip until his tongue swipes it away. You wonder, for a brief, awful moment, how you’d ever explain this to your dad, or worse, Jughead. You push those thoughts away, unwilling to even contemplate it.

He pulls you out the truck, propelling you towards the trailer with a hand slipping low on your back. You know that there’s no one around to see this, know that no one here would call the cops if they did. It’s an odd sort of relief.

The trailer stinks of stale beer and cigarette smoke, bottles littering the floor along with unwashed clothes, and there’s a pile of dirty plate in the sink – it’s the usual disorganised mess it’s always been. You kick a bottle out of the way, listening as it clatters its way across the floor to join the mass of bottles by the wardrobe.

You catch a glimpse of blue and gold in FP’s wardrobe, and for a moment you think that you must have left your jacket the last time you were here, before you remember that you’re already wearing it. Unease trickles down your spine like ice, pooling at the base, leaving you feeling uncomfortable and edgy.

He looks over from where he’s dumped his own jacket, follows your gaze, and before you can reach out and touch, he’s slammed the door, the sudden _bang_ making you jump. “That’s not for you to see,” he says as he crowds you up against the now-closed door, taking your face in hands and kissing you, pulling you backwards, manoeuvring you until you’re in front of the couch, all thoughts of blue and gold jackets banished from your mind.

He pushes the jacket from your shoulders, tossing it across the room, and you make a sound of protest, which he quiets as he begins to work the plaid shirt from your shoulders, and suddenly you’re not quite sure that you still want this.

You try to break the kiss, shoving at him when that doesn’t work, but he grabs your hands in one of his own. “You came to me, remember? You’re gonna see this through, right, Red?” and then he’s on you again, tugging and pulling and pushing and you find yourself going along with it, no longer protesting.

Once he’s worked you free, he’s gives a deliberate shove, your knees hit the arm of the couch, sending you toppling backwards onto the cushions. He’s on you in an instant, straddling your thighs, and you try to breathe deeply, feeling like you might choke on your next breath, and he rucks your shirt up, tangling it around your wrists so you can barely move them.

His breath ghosts across your chest, warm and wet and smelling faintly of beer. You can feel him against your leg, hot and hard, and you try not to think about it just yet, try to focus on the sensation of him touching you instead.

His hand trails across your collar bone, and he leans in to taste, biting and sucking his way across and up your neck until you’re sure you have a necklace of bruises decorating your pale skin. His thumb brushes across your nipple, and you gasp, back arching up off the sofa. He pushes you back down, hands curling around your shoulders to keep you still as he licks as sucks his way down to the nub, a moan spilling past your lips when he nips at it, circling his tongue around it, and then sucking.

Heat pools low in your abdomen, and you’re hard and aching by now, and you want him to _hurry up and take you_ , but you don’t want to show him just how much you _~~want~~_ _need it._ You bite your lip in an effort to stop the sounds that are coming from you.

His lips move further south, his hands going to the zipper of your jeans, pulling them down in one clean stroke, taking your boxers with them, until you’re completely bare, exposed. He shucks off his own shirt, doesn’t bother to take off his pants, only unzips them, and then reaches down the back of the sofa to grab the lube you know he keeps stashed there.

He lifts your legs up and presses them against your chest, bending you in half. You can tell that he’s just as desperate as you. Normally he’d drag it out, hook his fingers into your mouth, get you to suck them until your tongue is numb and his fingers are dripping.

This time, though, you can see how much he needs this too, and you’re surprised by that. He’s never struck as someone who _needed_ anything. Wanted, maybe, but never _needed,_ not as much as he seems to need this. It makes you wonder, for the first time, if maybe there’s more to him than the well-honed predator that he appears to be, with sharp teeth and an even sharper tongue.

He presses one slick finger into you, firm and insistent, relentlessly pushing past that band of muscle until he’s up to the knuckle. He thrusts it in and out a few times before pressing the second finger in, stretching you.

He pushes the third finger in too soon, and it burns, makes you squirm and whimper and you want him to _stop, just for a second, just to let you adjust._

He doesn’t.

He leans over you, weight pressing you back into the cushions, silences you with a tongue in your mouth, and he swallows your whine at the loss of his fingers when they retreat. He hooks your legs over his shoulder, biting at the sensitive skin of your thigh, bending you back and in half again, and swallows your scream when he slicks himself up and begins to push in.

He’s big, and the rushed preparation means you’re not nearly as loose as you need to be. The burn is worse this time, and it’s _too much, not enough, you need more, more, more._ He slides in with one steady, slow thrust, not stopping until he’s fully inside you, and you think you may burst from how _full_ you feel.

“Gonna make you scream, Red,” he hisses against the shell of your ear, and you know it’s a promise he intends to keep.

There’s no warning when he withdraws, and your arch off the sofa, crying out as he slams back in so hard that white dots your vision. He grins down at you, a terrible thing with more teeth than tenderness. You wish you were at home right now, huddled under the sheets, listening to your dad and Jughead snoring, and the thought slams into you like a freight train, _I don’t want to be here._

 _But this is what you chose,_ whispers a venomous voice, slithering out of the deepest, darkest corners of your mind, _you chose to be here._

He’s thrusting into you with abandon now, nailing that sweet spot inside you on every other thrust, and your mind goes blank, flooded with pleasure, and he’s all you can think about, this is all you think and feel, and it’s all so much, it’s all _too much_.

You come. Your vision whites out and your breath comes in desperate pants as your mind is overwhelmed by sensation. You can still feel him pounding into you, can feel yourself clenching around him, until his hips start to stutter and lose their punishing rhythm.

He thrusts once, twice, and then he’s spilling inside you, warm splashes of his come inside you. He collapses on top of you, completely spent, and you try to get him to move, convince him that you need to clean yourself up.

He tells you to shut up, before he’s out a minute later, and you’re pinned beneath his weight against the couch, unable to move. You decide you’ll move in a minute, when your limbs aren’t so sluggish, and your mind isn’t so foggy.

You let your eyes close, telling yourself it’s only for a couple of minutes.

 

* * *

 

You wake to the sounds of someone throwing up in the toilet, and a phone buzzing somewhere in the room. It takes you a few minutes to remember where you are, before you scramble for your phone, cursing as it stops buzzing.

You fish it out of the pocket of your jeans, and when you look the screen, you think you feel as sick as FP does. There are six missed calls from your father, another three from Jughead, and voicemail messages to go with each call, each one more desperate than the last.

You try to think about what you’re going to do, how you’re going to explain this, but all you can think about is how badly you’ve fucked up. Your father and best friend are worried sick, it’s all your fault, and it’s all because you were too busy fucking your best friend’s dad. You’re not just fucked.

You’re messed up.

You try to get through to your dad, still wondering what the hell you’re going to say to him, struggling into your jeans as you try to balance the phone, but the call goes straight to voicemail. You try Jughead, but the result is the same.

You catch sight of yourself in the mirror, and you can see how obscene the choker of bites around your neck looks, and shame floods through you. You wonder what the hell you were thinking, wonder how the hell you’re going to cover up this. You doubt you can do what Veronica does, and wear a scarf around your neck all day.

You’ve just managed to find your shirt when FP staggers in, and you take one look at him before deciding you’ll be better off walking to school, rather than getting him to drop you off a few blocks away, like he normally does.

“Morning, sunshine. Where are you going?” He asks as he boxes you up against the front door, breath still stale despite the fact you think he might have used mouthwash.

“I’ve gotta get to school. I’m already late, and my dad’s worried about where I am,” you reply, jutting out your chin, trying to get him to back off. He smiles, a slow, easy widening of his mouth, and you know that he’s laughing at you, at your attempt to be _intimidating_.

“Screw ‘em,” he says in that easy way of his, and his lips press against yours, insistent, demanding entry that you grudgingly give, thinking that this will appease him.

He slides a hand under your shirt, and you shove at his shoulders, twisting out from underneath him.

“I’ve gotta go, before someone comes looking for me.” It’s that that seems to stir him into action, reminds him of just how bad it would be for you to be discovered with him. He grabs his jacket off the hook, fishing out the keys to the truck, hustling you outside.

You manage to make it about three steps towards his truck, before your dad’s truck is swinging into the park, pulling up alongside the trailer. He flings open the door and stalks towards you, and even at this distance, you can tell that he’s furious.

“Archie!”

You want to run. You can feel your body getting ready to run, your breathing picking up, heartbeat racing, blood rushing past your ears, like oceans waves crashing inside your head. He’s angry, it’s all your fault, he’s going to find out, you need to _run._

Your feet are rooted to the spot. You want to move, but you can’t, like your feet have sunk into the ground and the earth refuses to let you go. You can’t move; you can’t breathe. Everything is spinning except you, you’re trapped, _you’re trapped_ , _you need to get out, you need to not be_ here, _you need to go, but you can’t, you can’t move –_

It’s your father’s hands on your shoulders that snap you back to reality. Your head is stilling spinning, vision blurry and distorted, though you can just about make out his face, and he looks so worried, and you know that it’s your fault.

“Archie, are you ok?” He cups your chin, searching your face, trying to find out what’s wrong with you, and you want to say, _so many things_ , but you can’t find the will to speak, you can’t even open your mouth to tell him that, no, you’re not ok.

He pulls you into a hug, and you try to return it, but your limbs feel like they’ve been weighed down with lead. You think of yourself as a puppet that’s had its strings cut, it can no longer move. He has to guide you back to the truck, and you see Jughead, waiting, watching, worried like your father.

But there’s something else too. You think he might know, Jughead, your best friend who’s so observant, too observant for his own good, sometimes. He figured it out, about you and Grundy. You should’ve known he would’ve figured this out too.

You can’t look him in the eye, when you’re finally in the truck, and you barely hear him when he asks you something, the blood still rushing in your head so loudly that it drowns out everything except your own thoughts – you wish it would drown out everything, wish you weren’t tormented by the thoughts crowding your mind.

“Archie, what happened?”

It’s the tenderness in Jughead’s voice that pushes you over the edge. The first tear pools at the edge of your eye, and then it’s a stream that just won’t stop. Awful, ugly sobs tear their way from your throat, and you’re in his arms, head on his shoulder, and he’s rubbing circles on your back, shushing you, telling you it’s going to be ok, even though you both know that it’s going to be far from ok. This truck is like a sanctuary in a storm, and you’ll have to get out at some point.

Distantly, you can hear screaming, flesh impacting on flesh, a high-pitched _snap_ that reminds you of the time you ran headfirst into a tree branch and blood gushed from your nose. There’s more screaming and shouting. You can hear FP shout “nothing happened”, and if this were any other situation, if this were about anything else, between anyone else, you’d probably laugh at how absurd that is.

But you’re you, and this is reality, and instead you stay in the safety of your friend’s arms, only removing yourself from the comfort when your dad climbs back in the truck, lip split open and knuckles heavily bruised.

“It’s going to be ok, Archie,” he says in a weary tone, and you wonder if he really believes it. You don’t, despite how much you want to.

You wonder if it will ever be ok again.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I hope that wasn't too awful. This particular prompt was pointed out to me by a couple of followers on tumblr who asked me to fill it, which I hope I've done. I have to say, it was definitely a step outside my comfort zone, as well as my normal style of writing.
> 
> Please leave con-crit in the comments if you wish too, and kudos is love. Thank you so much for reading :)


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